


poetry and nature

by Tamatoa



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 10:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13656678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamatoa/pseuds/Tamatoa





	poetry and nature

Henry Clerval was too beautiful for words. Maybe not if he had been describing himself, of course Henry could have found words that fit perfectly, hidden among the great poetic vernacular that only existed in his mind. Henry had proven that when he had taken it upon himself to write a sonnet in the margins of every letter to Victor, each of them more adoring than the last.  
As it was, Victor had no words that would do his friend justice.   
Friend. That word didn’t even begin to fit.   
Constant companion, closer than any other, light of my life-!   
No. Too far.   
Breathtaking.  
Maybe.  
They were sitting under a tree together after a long hike in the mountains, Henry half asleep with his head resting on Victor’s shoulder. The sun was setting, and he looked positively ethereal in its rose-tinted glory.   
“Henry,” Victor smiled and twined their fingers together. “I love you.”   
Henry returned the smile, shifting forward to kiss him. The gentle press of soft lips soon gave way to Victor licking into his mouth, hands sliding down to settle on Henry’s hips, every touch searingly hot in the evening chill.   
The cold was always there, even in his dreams.   
Victor pulled away from the kiss and gasped for breath. These moments of realization, when he felt the ice closing in and the dream’s illusion shattered, were almost worse than the seemingly endless days of pursuing the dæmon.  
“You’re thinking too loudly, Victor.” Henry leaned in as if to kiss him again, and it was almost tempting to forget the real world in favor of losing himself to this fantasy. “Let me distract you.”  
The dream’s artificial sense of peace and security had faded and it all felt wrong. Victor tried to shove Henry away, but the tree’s roots had curled around his wrists. The second kiss was barely there, a feather-light touch that left him wanting more, and he licked his lips before shaking off the trance.   
“Stop. Please don’t do this.” Victor’s voice trembled, and he blinked tears out of his eyes. “He’s dead. Stop using his image to torment me. Just leave me to mourn in peace. I know you’re there, you’re always there to twist the knife again just when I think I’ve reached the limit of my suffering, just SHOW YOURSELF, GOD DAMN IT!” He cried out, thrashing in his bonds before collapsing, defeated.   
Henry watched with the same expression of confusion and pity that he had worn while caring for him at Ingolstadt, then adjusted his grip to hold Victor closer.   
“Shh, it’s okay. No one is going to hurt you.” His last words were muffled in Victor’s shoulder, but he could still make out the faint “I love you.” 

Victor woke up to the sting of Arctic wind in his face, and the weight of Captain Walton’s arm around him. The familiarity of the scene was painful. He knew that the captain loved him, he had seen the letters that told his story, the amount of detail that went into every paragraph.

He wondered if Walton had ever written poetry.


End file.
